


Goddess, Meet Trouble

by xxRobinxx



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: Ailish is bipolar so, BIG WARNING FOR AILISH:, Bipolar Disorder, Canon Typical Violence, Communication don’t know her, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Imogen is bad at feelings and friends but she knows your secrets, Listen Ailish is a human disaster, Mad Sweeney is his own warning, Media is the tired mum friend, Mentions of Attempted Suicide, Mentions of Suicide, Mr Wednesday is an asshole but he’s cool, Mr World is evil, PTSD, She kindaaa has a thing with Tech but I didn’t want to tag it because it takes FOREVER to happen, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Tech is an asshole but also sorta soft, a lot of it, definitely angst, god complex but they are actual gods, god fuckery, mentions of drug addiction, mentions of overdose, probably some gore and death and murder at some stage, probably will include an actual overdose, yeah it’s ‘mum’ I’m British
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:28:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26042719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxRobinxx/pseuds/xxRobinxx
Summary: The goddess of secrets liked the name Imogen, and so she took it when she knew that it was time to evolve. It would be vital to have an identity of her own, she knew, when the old gods and the new gods finally went to war. Now she's in the middle, struggling to balance her need to progress with her past.And Ailish Mason is a disaster.
Kudos: 3





	Goddess, Meet Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> So basically this isn’t an OLD project but it’s definitely an Old Project™️ so if I decide to continue then there will probably be a bit of a jump in quality or style - sorry about that! I wrote three parts on Wattpad but because it’s Wattpad they were pretty short so I’m just gonna dump em all into one chapter here.   
> I know this probably won’t get much attention because American Gods is kinda a niche fandom but for those of you who do read it, let me know and tell me what you think! Feedback is always appreciated!

It was time to evolve. The Goddess of Secrets knew that now.  
Sitting in a diner just off of the Louisiana interstate, she sipped on lukewarm coffee and looked out onto the highway as hoards of vehicles flitted by in a flash of metal and noise. The early afternoon light was sickly yellow and bright, blazing in through dirty windows. It smelled like the remnants of breakfast. She watched her wizened hand wrap around the chipped blue mug as the other propped her head - curled fingers, the point of her chin resting on her knuckles.

She remembered the first days of her own existence. The guttural roar of machine gun fire over no-man's land, the stench of blood, the screams; and in the middle of it all, a young man racing with a pounding heart to deliver his commanding officer an urgent telegram. She had been borne out of the sickly yellow smoke of poisoned gas and kept in clandestine envelopes passed between shaking hands in dark German alleyways. The goddess flicked a breadcrumb off of the table. Later came the glory years - the Cold War. The war of espionage and information. Russia and America both had worshipped her feverishly, obsessively. The sacrifices were many and bloody. People were tortured for her, lived for her power, prayed for her wisdom. People had spoken in whispers then and looked over their shoulders. They only thought of the future like this; we cannot have one if they do.

The Goddess of Secrets had aged far more quickly than the other gods borne of war. When the USSR had fallen, so had she. Her brown hair had grown grey, then white, and her blue eyes had faded and her skin had become fragile. People no longer supported the old ways of espionage, she had come to realise. It was the way of the past now - only given affectionate credence in spy film pastiches. "A pastiche is not an homage," she had said as James Bond flew across the screen to swelling music, "it's a mockery with a thank-you note." It was a belief that she still firmly held.

But now, sitting in the diner, she could sense something coming upon her like an unexpected summer breeze. It had come and gone these past few months, but now there was something else behind it. A sort of energy, buzzing and urging. Power. Power that she had not felt for over twenty years now. The goddess stood, cursed at the ache in her knees, and stepped out of the booth, leaving her half-finished drink to go cold by the window. The energy swirled around her ankles at first, chasing her round and round, then enveloped her in an instant. There was a sound like a powerful, roaring gale. She breathed in sharply, but her heart remained steady - for it was of her own doing - as her skin grew firmer again, the ache in her limbs subsided, the fogginess of her vision dissolved into clarity.

But a small fear gripped her, for she felt herself change too. Not just in body, but in mind. In soul. You must evolve, she reminded herself. The goddess knew that she must be replaced. To survive, she must die ever so slightly. Surely this must be better than a slow, dreadful death, and at the end of it all there is nothing left but an ember that winks out? The goddess steeled herself with a breath, clenched her fists, and let go.

"Miss? Miss, are you okay? Can you hear me?" Imogen awoke with a start and saw black hair splayed out on a tile floor next to a pair of scuffed red shoes.

"Miss? Are you- well don't just stand there Gerry, get the girl some water!"

Girl. Something about that didn't seem right. There was something remarkable, too, about her light terra cotta skin. She remembered being older, paler. She remembered...

"Hey..." A gentle woman's voice said as the pair of legs in front of her bent at the knees, "...hey, sweetie, what's your name?"

"Imogen." Imogen answered, and shocked herself with her assurance. It had leapt to the front of her mind instantly. She mouthed it slowly, feeling the shape of it on her lips and tongue. Yes, it seemed right - like turning a jigsaw piece until it fit. Imogen turned her head and felt her cheek peel away from the cool floor. The woman hovering above her was the perfect picture of an aunt. She had her messy hair pushed back into a bun high on her head, her skin was flushed and beaded with sweat from the Louisiana heat - she remembered now, she was in Louisiana - her figure was full and soft and her red lipstick was smudged slightly in the right corner of her mouth.

"Do you know where you are?" The woman asked in her soft Southern lilt. Imogen answered, and the woman nodded encouragingly.

"You need some water?" Her mouth felt very dry.

"Yes, thank you."

"Gerry, where is that darn water?"

"It's comin', it's comin'!" A gravelly voice answered - the kind of cracked husk that comes from smoking too much for too long. A few moments later, a short, round man waddled into sight with a glass clutched in his sunburnt hand.

"I ain't as fast as I used to be, Ellen."

"And you weren't ever that fast." Ellen lifted her eyebrow at her husband, who simply grumbled good-naturedly. Ellen took the glass and lowered it down.

"Now sit up- no, no, not so fast or you'll faint again." Imogen's head span in a way that made her stomach twist. Ellen put one hand behind her neck as she lifted the glass to Imogen's lips.

"Drink, drink. You'll feel much better." Imogen did as she was told. For a few moments, the only sounds in the diner were her intermittent slurps, Gerry's hacking cough and an upbeat song playing over the old radio on the counter. Ellen took it upon herself to fill the silence.

"I don't know where your Gramma went. She was here one minute, gone the next, and then you were on the floor. I was in the kitchen so I didn't see anythin', so it was Gerry who found you and started hollerin' 'Elle-en there's a girl on the damn floor!' So I said 'Watch your language' and came out - oh, sorry, I was making pastry so I got a little flour on my hands."

Imogen told her it was fine. The cool water rushed down her throat, into her stomach and stilled the lurching there.

"Well, anyway, it's a good job you weren't in here on a busy day."

"Ain't been busy these last couple days." Gerry interjected as he cleaned his round glasses with a fold of his plaid shirt. It went on like this for a while. Imogen drinking and talking when she had to, Ellen holding the glass for her and passing the time with chatter, and Gerry making the odd comment here and there before returning to squinting out of the window at the highway. After few glasses of water finished and most topics of conversation (or monologue) exhausted, Imogen felt far steadier. Ellen asked her where her grandmother went, Imogen said she wasn't her grandmother, just a woman she used to know who she bumped into. No, she didn't have the woman's phone number or know where she lived. Yes, she drove here alone - she was on her way up to Oklahoma, and she really should get going. Ellen frowned deeply.

"Are you sure you can drive? If you faint again-"

"No, no. Thanks to you I'm feeling much better," Imogen smiled as winsomely as she could, "you know how it is - I think I probably just forgot to drink enough water."

Imogen gave the couple twenty dollars each as thanks for their hospitality. When she finally stepped outside, a cool evening breeze greeted her, though the air was still thick with heat. The sun was barely dangling above the horizon, the sky was streaked with orange and red and the few wispy clouds glowed bright pink. Imogen looked around the car park - she remembered driving, arriving in a car, there were keys in her pocket. The small blue one beneath the roadside sign caught her attention, so she aimed the keys at it and clicked. The silver one opposite beeped and flashed.

She had heard talk of new gods. The next evolution, the future. She had also heard that Grimnir wasn't so happy about that. Glad-O-War was planning another war, according to the grapevine. It was time to evolve, she thought as she stooped into the driver's seat.

Evolved she had. There was energy in her movements now, and the arthritis had fled from her fingers, replaced by that familiar-forgotten buzzing and shifting. Power. Unapparent power, untapped as yet, but tangible enough. Imogen pulled down the mirror. She was pretty now - very pretty. Slim with smooth, brown skin and thick black hair. A small, sweet mouth and almond-shaped black eyes that glittered like spinel. She smiled at her new self, and it smiled back with white teeth. She had to know how to use her renewed power. She had to find the new gods.

****

The bar was much busier than Ailish had expected.   
After the day that she had just endured, all that she wanted was to drink a pint in peace. Listen to snatches of conversation from a nearby table, then to whatever was on the jukebox, sip water to make sure she didn't get dehydrated - Lithium was a bitch - and then check out at around eleven and get an early night.   
It was now eleven forty five, but the man who both stank of vodka and couldn't take a fucking hint had decided to perch on the barstool right next to hers.

"-so I said to Richard, dude, that's not cool. He was like "whatever man" and I just thought...I mean why bother if you're not gonna listen to me, so I just left, y'know?"

"Yeah." Shut the fuck up. Ailish frowned down at the rabbit's foot in her palm and ran her thumb over it a few times. Stupid thing must be faulty.

"I don't..." That was the last that Mark - or Mike, or whoever - said before his eyes suddenly rolled back and he slumped forwards onto the counter with an impressive snore.

Not completely broken, then. Before anyone else got the idea to set up shop, Ailish slid off of her seat and slapped five dollars onto the bar. The burly woman behind the bar with thick wrists and a tattoo on her neck snatched up the money and hoisted it into the light.

"Money's real, Gillian."

"Ah, sure, but you wouldn't be the first regular to suddenly stiff me." Gillian rasped, narrowing her small eyes to slits. When she talked, her neck puffed out like a toad's and the tattoo would wobble - Ailish had never decided what exactly it was of, and she didn't feel much like asking. It was something black with a streak of kingfisher blue in it that touched the bottom of Gillian's chin like a protruding vein.

"Whatever - I'm jonesin’. See ya."   
Gillian grunted. Ailish headed for the back door, knowing that there was a small porch outside where she could have a cigarette before she started walking home. She hadn't lied - her fingers had been twitching towards the packet of cigarettes in her pocket for about an hour now, but she'd wanted to finish her pint first, and she hadn't been able to finish her pint until five minutes ago thanks to Martin - was it Martin? She really couldn't recall.   
On her way out, she passed a table full of drunk frat boys chanting rhythmically as one of them chugged a bottle of something brown, but most of it was spilling over his chin anyway, so Ailish couldn't see the point. The table behind them had two women on it who were watching the spectacle and whispering conspiratorially behind cupped hands. Old man Frank, who was in the same corner as usual, was doing a crossword puzzle and checking the lottery numbers. No matter who came or who went, the pulse of the bar itself always remained the same. Day after day, week after week, month after month. As she pushed open the old door with a long creak, she thought;

‘What the fuck is this?’   
She banished that notion immediately. There was no point in lamenting because there was nothing that she could do about it. Ailish had a job at the local convenience store stacking shelves, defending the till and doing odd jobs, and that paid enough for her food, medication and a cheap motel room. Not enough for a car. Not nearly enough for a flight, especially not one back to Ireland. Who’d be there to greet her anyway?

She'd probably have more money if she could kick the nicotine, but so far no success. Ailish placed a cigarette between her teeth and flicked open her lighter. A man's voice cursed quietly behind her. The beer in her stomach kept her from startling, but she still looked around. The porch was empty, lit only by two dim lights on either side of the door and a lamp post next to the quiet road. Next to one of those dim lights was a very tall man in a torn denim jacket. With his head bowed, the yellow light mostly shone on his brilliant mane of red hair as he frowned down at the lighter clicking feebly beneath his thumb. He clicked it a few more times, and then with an explosive movement swore again and threw the lighter. It sailed across the porch and into the road, where it clattered twice and then lay still. The man returned to his leaning spot on the wall - next to the kitchen vent - and glared out at the inky blue sky as if the fault lay in it. Ailish glanced down at her own lighter clasped loosely in her fist. 

"Here," she extended her arm towards the tall man, "use mine if you want."

The man's brown eyes shifted to her, and his long face - made a little longer by the pointed red beard on his chin - scrunched a little in what Ailish thought could either be confusion or suspicion. He said nothing. She sighed and jogged her arm.

"I want to have a smoke and get to bed, don't make me wait around."

"Best light yourself a fag and get goin'. Knowin' my luck I'll break your lighter too." The man turned his gaze up to the sky again as he grumbled. Ailish shrugged, pulled her lighter back into her chest and lit her own cigarette. The orange flame flared and lit up the tip of her nose. The cigarette made a crackling sound as she inhaled deeply. The tension left her shoulders as cool calm flooded her body and the taste of tobacco filled her throat. Ailish took her time drawing her tongue towards the back of her throat, making an 'o' with her lips, and exhaling a large ring-shaped plume of white smoke into the cold night air.

"Now it don't matter," she said after the last of it had spilled from her mouth, and again held out the lighter, "I've got a spare."

The man stared at her for a few more moments, then grunted and pushed off of the wall. The closer he sauntered, hands in pockets, the more Ailish found herself tilting her head back to look at his face.

"Fuck me - you a giant or somethin'?" The redhead man finally broke his stormy expression with a small smirk. Most of the smile lay in his eyes - the corners crinkled and the irises gleamed with something wry.

"Not quite."

"Half-giant?" Ailish took another drag.

"Leprechaun."

Ailish barked out a laugh and choked on the smoke in her throat.

"Leprechaun?" She snorted, "I mean, sure, you're Irish. And ginger as fuck."

The 'leprechaun' cast her a sidelong look as he finally plucked the lighter out of her hand.

"Sounds like you're from the Emerald Isle yourself." The lighter flared, and he raised his eyebrows. "What do you know? Cheers, lighter girl."

He tossed it back lazily. Ailish bent at the knees to catch it. The man tipped his head back and exhaled with a long, tobacco-filled 'fuuuck'. A dog down the dark street started barking, and in the distance a siren wailed. Ailish puffed at her own cigarette thoughtfully.

"There's a thing - how come you've no luck if you're a leprechaun?" The leprechaun rubbed the tip of his nose with the back of his thumb and sniffed.

"Lost my lucky coin." He said curtly.

"And now you've got bad luck. Just like a rabbit's foot."

The man glanced at her sidelong again - this time, he had a slight frown on his face. Ailish fished it out of her pocket. It looked small in her palm, not much bigger than her thumb, and furry grey.

"That's just a trinket." The man said, eyeing it.

"Ain't a trinket if you get it from a witch." Ailish replied. The leprechaun suddenly straightened and plucked the burning cigarette from his lips with two fingers. She instinctively pocketed the foot again.

"What witch?" His narrowed eyes shifted back and forth across her face. His mouth remained slightly parted as he waited for an answer, but all that Ailish could do was shrug. She remembered very little of that - only the sickly-acrid odour of friar's balsam, a woman's voice chanting strange things, and a pair of green eyes floating in the midst of plumes of incense smoke. Ailish told him as much. His face remained impassive for a while, and then broke into a wide grin. In the yellow light spilling out from the kitchen, there was something more than a little unsettling about it.

"Be careful with that one," the man said, still grinning, "she's sweet enough, alright. But she knows the ways."

His voice had taken on a certain gravitas that brought to Ailish's mind a wise old priest, but the knowing glint in his expression was far from holier-than-thou. Ailish took a long, final drag so that she did not appear too uneasy as she asked;

"What's your name, leprechaun?" The man tilted his head at her. The smile was not quite as wide, but still present in the curves of his face.

"Folks call me Mad Sweeney. What about you, Rabbit's Foot?" Mirroring her gesture, Mad Sweeney had resumed smoking and spoke around the cigarette.

"My name's Ailish." Ailish flicked what was left of her smoke to the floor.

"Best be gettin' on, Ailish," Mad Sweeney turned back to the sky, "you won't want to be here when Grimnir comes."

****

Imogen had been driving for six hours by the time that she reached Oklahoma City. When she had told Ellen that she was heading to Oklahoma, it had just been the first close state that had sprung to mind, but it seemed as good a place to start as any. It was early morning now - one am or so - and the Devon Tower glowed blue, a beacon in the near distance.

It was a strange-looking city. Most of the buildings were small and short. There were canals and small parks lining the streets. Then, suddenly, a few block's worth of industrial skyscrapers and corporate buildings erupted from the flat scenery. Imogen thought that it was as if someone had picked up a section of New York and dropped it on their way over to Dallas. The cool night air rushed through the open window and whipped Imogen's black hair around her face as she drove along the quiet road. Although it was late - or early, depending on how you looked at it - the day had been so hot that the night was hardly frozen. The traffic had disappeared at around midnight. Now, there was only a couple of cars in the distance, tail lights faintly blinking red amongst the lights of the city.

Imogen sat back in her seat, steering with one hand and allowing the other to trail along the stream of fresh breeze as her elbow rested sleepily on the cold metal of the window. The car radio flashed yellow and started to crackle and hum. Imogen flicked her eyes down to it, then back to the road. Distorted voices began to chatter over the steady rumble of the engine. Snatches of music floated through the noise - a few strains of a jazz piano, the steady thud of a dance track, the mournful twang of blues guitar chords. Imogen frowned down at the radio dial and tapped it a few times with her fingertips.

"And in other news, the county of- of- of-"

"Stupid thing." Imogen muttered.

"Maybe so." The radio answered. Imogen froze and the steering wheel just a little tighter.

"Well," the radio dipped into static again, and came out the other side in a woman's soft, lazy voice, "if you think about all the things you can get these days...who uses radio for anything but an alarm clock?"

Imogen relaxed a little and brought her eyes back up to the road, forcing her face into an impassive expression.

"You must be one of the new gods I've heard talk of."

'How did you find me so fast?' is what she wanted to ask, but Imogen knew it wouldn't be wise. Nevertheless, she found herself glancing into her backseat, then checking the mirrors to be certain.

"Don't worry, honey. We know when someone's looking for us. It's one of the perks of wanting to be found." There was a pointed remark in there somewhere, but Imogen was not in the mind to find it. "Anyhow - I'm the one that's on your television, your radio. I would say your phone, but that's..." the radio voice paused in thought, "...more the other one's domain."

"And do you have names? Or should I just keep calling you 'Voice'?" Imogen said, keeping her eyes fixed ahead as she flicked on the indicator and turned into the main city centre. The heat rising from the bonnet swam into the blinking city lights, neon haze glowing along the black metal of the car.

"How does brunch tomorrow sound? I can tell you all about it." The voice sang breathily, sounding just for a moment exactly like Marilyn Monroe. Imogen glanced down at the dial, which was already flickering impatiently.

"Sounds good. Where?"

"I'll find- find...find you." The radio crackled with static, then went dark. The silence that was left in its wake rang in her ears - it felt as if someone had just got out of the passenger seat. Imogen drummed her fingers on the rim of the steering wheel and ran her tongue along her teeth.

"Fucking brunch. What's so wrong with a bar?"   
Imogen kept driving for a little while longer. The hotels in the inner city were too expensive for just one night and there was no way that they offered free parking, so she made her way West into Bricktown and eventually found the Econo Inn. It was, to all intents and purposes, a decent motel, with a well-kept lawn and nice upholstery in the reception area. Imogen walked up to the front desk. The man behind it was grey - grey hair, grey skin, grey baggy shirt covering his gaunt frame. When he spoke, she could hear the saliva straining to moisten his mouth. Nevertheless, she smiled at him as he stared back over his half-moon spectacles. 

"Hey - I'm, uh, checking in?" The man glanced at the clock on the wall.

"It's late," he drawled, "flight get delayed or somethin'?"

Imogen looked down at her feet and tucked her hair behind her ear with a little shrug.

"Well, you know how it is." The man tapped his pen a few times against the edge of the curved wooden desk.

"You made a reservation?"

"Yes. Single room for one night.”

"Under?"

"Smith."

Imogen smiled again, ignoring the tired burning of her eyes and the way that they cringed every time the fluorescent light above shone into them. The man sighed heavily, as if this was some inconvenience to him, and moved sluggishly to peer at the computer. She shifted slightly closer to the reception desk. He gave her a quick, sidelong look. Imogen's hand tingled slightly as she passed it under the desk in a careful motion. She imagined running her fingers along rows of string pulled taut. The second, the sixth - in a plucking motion like a harp. The eighth, the second again. Black text on white flashed in her vision. The man clicked the mouse twice.

"Found you, Miss Smith. You're in room forty six." Again, he sighed - so hard that Imogen heard something in his chest click - as he bent down and rifled around blindly under the desk. When he sat up again, he had a keycard in his hand which he handed to her stiffly. Imogen's smile was as real as saccharine at this point, but something had to keep her from grimacing when her fingers brushed the clammy, leather-like skin of his knuckles.

"Thanks."

"Check out before eleven." The man answered. For a moment, the light shone on his glasses in such a way that his eyes disappeared, and he looked almost completely dead. Imogen went up to her room without another word. She felt a little conspicuous without a bag to carry up, but what would be the point of a bag if there was nothing to put in it? Imogen dragged her feet up the stairs, along the corridor to room forty six, too tired to think of much else. When she entered the room, though, she made sure that the door was properly locked. The latches on the windows were screwed in place, likely because she was on the second floor, and you could only open the top section which was about as wide as her head. Even then, you could only really open it a crack. Imogen reached over and pulled the blinds down over Bricktown. The beads rattled against the wall. She paused and stopped down to peer under the thick, dirtied canvas and out at the black night sky.

"All these lights..." she said under her breath, then instantly wondered why her stomach was twisting so violently. She straightened. In a burst of movement, she pulled until the blind was hanging well below the windowsill. Her heart battered. What had she been looking for? What? She shook the awful gnawing out of her head and left her post by the curtains to go and check the bathroom.

That night her dreams were infested with the black skies above London, teeming with small black planes like a mound of beetles, blown apart by blasts and light and torn with the mournful scream of sirens. She scrambled for the lights. They blazed unnaturally bright. Roaring overhead. The bulb burned - wouldn't turn off. The roaring grew and grew. She clawed at the switch. There was a crash above. She looked up and screamed.

When she woke with a gasp and cold sweat on her chest, birds were singing outside her window. Imogen gasped in a shallow breath, then another, then a longer one that shuddered on the way through her lips. The bedsheets were clenched tightly in her fists. The blood had drained from her knuckles and fingers. She let the fabric go and grunted softly. Imogen closed her mouth, breathed hard through her nose, swallowed roughly - her throat felt coated with sand - blinked rapidly at the pale grey morning light streaming through the curtains. Her hands shook over the crumpled, coarse bedsheets in an attempt to smooth them. Imogen exhaled slowly, let her head fall. The hair that wasn't plastered to her face hung down in a tangled black curtain.

"Okay...okay..." Imogen mumbled through numb, trembling lips. Inhale sharply, sit up straight, square shoulders. Exhale through mouth. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe. Breathe. The television burst to life in an explosion of static and colour pixels. Imogen jolted - body and mind - and she bit down hard on her lip.

"Good mornin', Good mornin'!" The television sang, far too cheerily. Imogen licked the taste of iron out of her mouth and pulled the sheets closer to her chest. The pixels gathered into the faint shape of a woman's delicate face. First the shapely chin, then the full pink lips, a narrow pointed nose, sparkling blue eyes under arched brown brows, and finally a curtain of carefully styled brown hair. Imogen blinked, hard, to clear the blurriness from her vision, but still it was apparent that Ingrid Bergman - or not quite Ingrid Bergman, but someone who looked very much like her - was alive and curling her lip in an expression that didn't quite come off as apologetic.

"Sorry for waking you."

Imogen shivered as a drop of sweat crept down her spine. She cleared her throat.

"I was already awake."

"Oh good," Ingrid said, "then I'm sorry for a different reason." The upward quirk of Imogen's lips made the bite marks split.

"Let me guess - brunch is off?"

Ingrid hummed and inclined her head gracefully.

"Mr World can't wait. We need you in New York by tomorrow." Ingrid arched one eyebrow. "Think you can manage?"

Imogen sat up as straight as she could, bedclothes gathered around her in a fanned pool of fabric, and lifted her chin.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Just go to an Apple store, honey. The other one will find you easy enough." The television flickered briefly, and for a moment only Ingrid's eye was visible. "Your cab will arrive in forty five minutes. I suggest you shower."

Imogen barked out a coarse crack of a laugh. By then, the screen was already blank.

**Author's Note:**

> This hasn’t been beta read, so I apologise for any typos!


End file.
